Banned in Boston
by vitameatavegamin
Summary: If money, power, and fear were measured in booze, Jane Rizzoli drank every bottle in all of Boston, and nearly half the damn country, dry.
1. 1934

Well, this story was basically born from _fucking fear_. I may be being a bit dramatic, but when your Papaw (who may or may not be pushing 80) decides on a whim that he wants to buy a big, shiny, new truck for himself and take you on a ride, the only thing you really feel is fear. So, we're barreling past Philly doing at least 95, swerving into each and every lane on the damn highway, and my whole life flashes before my eyes (not really, but I _was _having some heart palpitations). Somewhere between Philly and seeing the light, Public Enemies and rizzles got pushed together in my head, and here we are.

**Disclaimer:**I don't own Rizzoli & Isles, this should be obvious.

**Author Notes (like you need anymore):**This first chapter is probably the shortest thing I've ever written in my life (besides "sorry I don't have my essay, here's a haiku" haikus that I wrote back in high school), but I promise the next one will be long and awesome sauce. Or maybe not, there might not even be a next chapter. That's really up to you guys. This is rated M because I say "fuck" a lot, also there will probably be some sex later on. Boom.

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><p><strong>Chapter One: 1934<strong>

A city just beginning to claw its way out of an immense economic depression was a place for two kinds of delinquents: entrepreneurs, and thieves. More often than not, these two breeds overlapped one another, but which side you were really on completely depended upon whether you wanted your whiskey served to you in a glass or if you wanted to sip it straight from the bottle. If money, power, and fear were measured in booze, Jane Rizzoli drank every bottle in all of Boston, and nearly half the damn country, dry.

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><p><em>"It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing…"<em>

Ivie Anderson's voice pumped, as much as the 1930's would allow, through the thick air of a musty motel room somewhere just across Ohio's border into Indiana. A pair of two-tone leather brogue clad feet, precariously settled atop the arm of an Art Deco styled couch, tapped the air in time with the musical crackle and buzz forcing its way out of the heart of an old radio at the far end of the room.

"It don't mean a thing, all you've got to do is sing! It makes no difference if it's sweet or hot! Just keep that rhythm, give it everything you've got!" Another voice entered the cadence, albeit deeper and scratchier, alongside Ivie's.

"What, you fancy yourself a jazz singer now?" The deep and scratchy voice stopped instantly at the sudden intrusion.

Startled, the lanky body that had previously been sprawled out down the length of the couch shot up into a sitting position, tuning out the music to zero in on the voice that had just disrupted a rare moment of peace. Long, tan fingers pulled back the black fedora to reveal a pair of brown eyes, focusing instantly on the other body that was now in the room.

"Only when no one's around…" A small smirk began to form on the lips that just moments before were treating the empty motel room to its own personal concert. "Jesus, Frankie, you scared the hell out of me."

"Yeah, yeah, of course I did, Janie. The person at the top of the nation's Most Wanted list, scared by her own brother!" Frankie pulled a tattered and folded piece of white paper from his coat pocket while taking a few steps towards the couch, extending his arm towards Jane. "Here are the numbers you asked for from Korsak. There are some pretty high ones on there, Jane. You sure we're prepared this time around?"

"When have we ever not been prepared?" Jane snatched the paper away from Frankie and unfolded it, dark eyes scanning the page, trying to make some sense of Korsak's chicken scratch.

"Well, last time was…we almost…" Frankie's voice trailed off the beaten path of coherent speech and then stopped completely, cut off by Jane's quick response.

"We didn't "almost" anything, Frankie. We just had to…improvise a little." Jane continued to scan the paper, her eyes widening with each passing number.

"I would hardly call kidnapping a few innocent women anything but _a little_ psychotic and _a little _bold." Frankie crossed his arms across his chest and peered down at Jane, trying to gauge her reaction. He could almost see dollar signs floating in the chocolate irises of her eyes.

"Psychotic, maybe, bold, also maybe…fun, definitely yes." Jane folded the paper back up and let it fall into her lap. "Besides, they were fine, a little smitten with us even. We dropped them off only a few miles outside of town."

"Yeah, after using them as human body shields…" Frankie rolled his eyes. "So, how much are we looking at here?"

"Well, little brother, it seems like we'll be heading home with more money than we originally thought," Jane cracked her knuckles and looked up at Frankie with a cheeky grin plastered on her face, "a lot more, if you're up for a few extra stops in Ohio."

"Well, I don't have much of a choice, now do I?" Frankie arched an eyebrow and let his arms fall to his sides.

"Not really. No fear in "The Rizzoli Brothers" if there's only one of us." Jane began humming along with the last few bars of the song that was still playing on the radio. Tipping her hat forward again, she clapped her hands on her knees to the beat.

"You sure you're not thinking about hopping off to become a jazz singer?" Frankie grinned and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

Jane finally stood, brushing invisible dust from her trousers. She pulled the black fedora from her head and ran a hand through her short, greased back, brunette hair. Her left hand absentmindedly twirled the hat on her fingertips. Fixing the tie beneath the grey vest perfectly fitted to her torso, she turned to Frankie.

"No, I don't think so. Robbing banks is a full time job." Jane smiled and clapped her hand against Frankie's shoulder. "Besides, I have to keep you morons out of jail."

"Morons?" Frankie's shoulders slumped and he arched an eyebrow yet again.

"You heard me." Jane placed her hat back on her head and leaned down to pick up the piece of paper that fell to the floor when she stood. She slid it into her vest pocket after folding it into a neat little rectangle. "Let's go make some money."


	2. The Rizzoli Brothers

**(Hey, so, I've made a few changes - nothing concerning the story line, just some spacing/grammatical issues. Sorry if I went and sounded the story alert alarms (thanks for that, by the way, you guys! I'm glad people are into this. Anyway, next update should be up within a few days! I legit promise that it won't take forever + a day this time.)**

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Rizzoli & Isles. If I did it would just be one big gay parade.**

**Rating: Nope, this shit is still rated M for multiple reasons.**

**Notes: Thanks for reading! I appreciate it! Maura, Tommy, and Frost will show up next chapter - sorry for dragging it out~**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: <strong>**The Rizzoli Brothers**

_I've traveled in different countries, I've traveled in foreign lands_

_I've found nobody to tell me…what about the soul of a man?_

_I saw a crowd stand talking; I came up right on time_

_Were hearing the lawyer and the doctor say, "a man ain't nothing but his mind."_

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><p>A black 1934 Buick 50 barreled down an old dirt road in Geauga County, Ohio, leaving thick clouds of dust in its wake. The four occupants who were settled in the vehicle had left Indiana behind days ago, driving with renewed gusto through all the bullshit that Ohio always seemed to offer them. Four sacks of money sat in the trunk, ranging in size based on windows of opportunity and how many pigs with guns tried to nail those windows shut. They had had four hits, <em>four fucking hits<em>, and not a single miss in the last four days. A new bank every day, and more money to count every night.

Jane Rizzoli sat at the wheel; Frankie Rizzoli sat to her right, working fruitlessly on the Tommy Gun he had laid across his lap. Jane raised her gaze from the road, peering into the rear view mirror to look at the two men in the backseat. Vince Korsak was exactly what Jane pictured Santa Clause looking like, except instead of his round belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly when he laughed it shook more like thirty years of alcohol abuse. He was busying himself with the flask he held tightly in his hand, bringing it up to his lips to take a long swig. While still sipping away at his whiskey, his gaze darted around the inside of the car, finally settling on Jane in the rear view mirror. Their eyes locked and he stopped drinking, the flask still pressed up to his mouth.

"You got something to say, kid?" Korsak's gruff voice broke the silence, whiskey dribbling down his chin through the white scruff he never seemed to bother keeping up maintenance on. After a few seconds Korsak broke eye contact first, like a damn submissive dog, twisting the cap back onto his flask and placing it in the pocket he had sewn to the inside of his black tweed coat himself.

Jane paid no mind to his question, directing her gaze now to Darren Crowe. Crowe had yet to prove himself. He was just _too fucking stupid _to carry himself in a manner that instilled fear or dominance, but Jane and Frankie knew they needed at least one extra man for this round of heists. They were getting too popular to start getting messy, and Crowe was the only man available at the time, recommended by a confidant back in Boston. _Some fucking confidant._

"Fuck!" All of a sudden, Frankie shouted and pulled his hand away from the Tommy Gun like it was on fire, breaking Jane away from her thoughts. He raised his right hand and pressed his middle finger to his lips, sucking at the now pierced skin.

"If that goes off in here I'm kicking you out of the fuckin' car, Frankie." Jane's voice was huskier; a mask to hide the femininity that sometimes broke through in her natural pitch. She shifted her focus back on the barren road ahead of them.

"Well, _Jay_, the spring is too tight and this fucker keeps locking up. What, do ya' want me to get shot?" Frankie's mumbled curses still bubbled to the surface, in no way soothing the ache that was now pulsing through his finger.

Jane grinned, pearly white teeth a stark contrast against her tanned skin, at the way Frankie always put extra emphasis on "Jay". It was like it was the most foreign thing in the world to him whenever it came flying out of his mouth, even though she had been going by that name to the public since their first heist nearly seven years ago. Jane had always figured that it would be easier to rob banks if she had a cock dangling between her legs, and even though she was lacking that crucial part of the male anatomy, she still masqueraded around as one of the toughest men in the country. Ever since she was little she had looked up to all of the gangsters seemingly running the entirety of Boston, and all of them were _men_. She had even gone as far as having Frankie shear off her once long, curly locks when she was nineteen. Being a badass female gangster was too high profile. Besides, "The Rizzoli Brother _and Sister_" didn't seem like it would turn as many heads as "The Rizzoli Brothers" seemed to.

"Jay, where are we headin' now?" Crowe spoke up, but kept staring out of the window, a little too enthralled by the constant change of scenery. Really, there was so much dirt to see and he didn't want to miss a second of it. Korsak turned his head and looked at the idiot sitting beside him, rolling his eyes after letting out an annoyed sigh. It's like the kid had never been in a car before.

"We're headin' for Chardon, but we're making a stop near Swine Creek first." Still focusing on keeping her voice deep, Jane pulled out a Lucky Strike that had been nestled behind her ear and placed it between her lips. In a rapid burst of movement, she hit Frankie on the shoulder, silently asking for a light.

"Ow, you dick!" Frankie rubbed his shoulder and scowled, but began searching through his pockets for a lighter anyway.

"What's in Swine Creek?" Crowe spoke up again, eyes still trained out the window.

"Didn't we go over this already with you?" Korsak had reached his boiling point, which never really took too long and finally snapped at Crowe. "We're stopping off at Swine Creek to meet up with Giovanni's contact!"

"Oh, right, we're going to look at the new cars." Crowe seemed proud of his realization; the gears grinding in his head could be heard for miles.

"Jesus Christ!" Korsak's face was turning red from holding back on shooting the man sitting next to him. "Why the hell are we workin' with him, again?" He aimed the question in Jane's direction as he pulled the flask back out from his coat pocket.

"Ladies, ladies, let's calm down a little bit, alright?" Jane rolled her eyes and looked at Frankie, wondering why it was taking him so long to find a damn lighter. "We're gonna need a faster getaway car if we want to get out of Chardon with our skin still on our bones. 'Sides, I'm not headin' back home to Boston in this piece of shit."

"Right, because Jay Rizzoli is just _so fuckin' classy_." Frankie finally pulled out a rusty old Zippo lighter from one of his pockets and leaned over to light Jane's cigarette. "There, happy?"

"I'll be happy once I'm sitting in a new car with another seventy-thousand in the trunk." Jane grinned, letting out a puff of smoke that filled the small space in a thin fog within seconds.

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><p>Swine Creek was a dainty little place in its own right, despite having the word "swine" in its name. It was mainly just a large forest with a few shabby houses scattered throughout the landscape. They were far enough away from any real semblance of society to rouse any suspicions; "see no evil, hear no evil."<p>

Jane pulled the Buick up a long driveway that led to a small house on a decent amount of land, the tires making the earth under the pressure of the heavy vehicle cry out for mercy. A short, balding man came out from the back of the house. He was dressed to the blue collar nines in a pair of greased up overalls and ratty old work boots. Once he saw the car he moved his hand with as much stealth as he could muster, reaching for the deep pocket of his overalls.

"He's wearin' iron." Frankie motioned towards the man by nodding his head in his direction, casting a quick sideways glance to Jane.

"Really? I thought he was just goin' to pull out a pad and pen and take our fuckin' drink order." Jane looked at Frankie as he scoffed and rolled her eyes. She turned her attention back towards the man, whose hand kept getting closer to his pocket with each passing second. "You wanna see how good this chump's aim is?"

"Just honk the fucking horn! Jesus!" Frankie went to reach over to honk the horn himself, only to have his hand batted away by Jane. "We've run through fuckin' hurricanes of bullets, and I'm not dyin' in the middle of Bumfuck, Ohio by the hand of this old fuck!"

"Alright, alright…what'd you tear your pantyhose this morning or somethin'? Fuckin' relax, little brother." Jane reached down and honked the horn three times in rapid succession, causing the man's hand to drop. A small smile broke out on his face and he waved them forward.

"This place is a fuckin' dump." Korsak looked at the house as they drove closer. Old paint was chipping off every visible surface and a myriad of various car parts were strewn about the lawn.

"So are you, but you don't see any of us complaining, do ya'?" Jane grunted and put the car in park, throwing the door open in a haste to get out of the humid environment she had been trapped in four the past few hours. The fresh air immediately dispersed throughout the cramped space, chasing away the stench of alcohol and sweat. Jane stepped out of the vehicle, stretching her long legs in an attempt to rid her muscles of the dull ache they had fallen victim to during the long drive. The other three quickly followed suit.

"Korsak, Crowe, you two take care of the dough in the trunk…Frankie and I can handle this." With that, Jane started walking up the rest of the uneven driveway, Frankie following close behind.

Korsak huffed and looked to Crowe over the top of the car, challenging him to speak.

"You heard him, fuckin' take care of it, Crowe." Korsak closed the door he had left open with a little more force than necessary and pulled out his trusty flask. He leaned back against the side of the car, and tore at the cap, twisting and turning it until it finally broke free.

"…you drunk fuck." Crowe mumbled under his breath and slammed his door shut.

"What'd you say?" Korsak turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Crowe, who had walked to the back of the car to retrieve the bags.

"I said, "what dumb luck", Vince. Can't ya' hear?" After popping open the small trunk, Crowe looked back to Korsak.

"Call me "Vince" one more time and I'll cut your fucking tongue out," Korsak paused to take a generous swig from his flask, "ya' hear?"

Crowe waved him off and looked down at the bags in the trunk. His palms began to sweat as he reached for one.

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><p>"…85 horsepower pumping through a Ford flathead V8 engine, she'll top off at about 106." The balding man, with the name <em>"Dennis"<em>written on the left breast pocket of his overalls in blotchy black ink, pulled back the white sheet covering the tin can that he was describing. "Well, here she is, the Ford Model 40 Deluxe, in black with a hard top just like you boys asked for. The other one is right over there." Dennis pointed in the direction of the other car, still covered in its own white sheet at the other end of the garage.

"Fucking hell…" Jane ran her fingertips down the length of the hood, a low growl clawing its way out of her throat. To say that fast, sexy cars were a turn on for Jane Rizzoli was a complete understatement. They were fucking _sex on wheels_. Before the small spark flickering in her belly could turn to a wild fire Jane cleared her throat and stopped right in front of Dennis, staring down at the short man in front of her. "Say, how much is this going to cost us," Jane stopped speaking to reach out and straighten out the fabric of Dennis's overalls to read the name marked there, "Dennis?"

"Well, straight off the production line would put you back about five-hundred and fifty-five dollars each, but with all the modifications…we're talkin' more around seven-hundred and fifty each." Dennis caught Jane's gaze, instantly falling into a state of uneasiness. Jane smirked once she caught the slight shift of discomfort in Dennis's eyes and she looked to her brother, who was too busy looking at the interior of the car to notice the exchange.

"Now, I'm not too sure we're gonna be able to swing that. I don't know about you, Frankie, but that number seems just a little too high for me." The deep husk of Jay's voice was dripping from Jane's words, causing Frankie to smirk and take a few slow steps towards Dennis.

What happened next was too quick for anyone to really comprehend, but it ended with Dennis's torso pressed flush against the hood of the vehicle. One of Frankie's hands had ended up on the back of the balding man's head, grasping with just enough force to keep his face pressed against the cold, shiny black metal. Dennis was left with no room for escape.

"What the fu…" Dennis reached down to his pocket to retrieve the revolver he always kept with him.

_Click._

"What, ya' think we didn't noticed you were packing heat? Don't be stupid, Dennis." Frankie pressed the revolver that he had stolen from Dennis's pocket during the scuffle against its owner's own temple.

Jane waited a few moments, picking at her fingers, to let the realization of what was about to happen marinate in Dennis's mind. A loud crack of thunder rumbled in the distance and Jane perked her head up to look out the door that had been left open. It was going to rain, and Jane despised the rain for two reasons: one, it made her hands ache, and two, it made skipping town quick and undetected all the more hazardous. She sighed and flexed her hands, casting a quick glance to Frankie before settling her gaze, once again, back on the pathetic heap of shaking flesh Frankie had pressed against the car.

"I'm goin' to say this in the most basic way I can, Dennis." Jane walked around to the front of the Ford and bent down to lean against it, crossing her forearms and resting her head upon them. She was now eye level with the man who put in all the work, but would reap none of the reward. "These cars belong to us, no charge. Now, this can play out one of two ways: one, we just drive off without you making a fuss, or two, you force us to make an awful mess of this nice garage you've got here."

Jane reached down to the left side pocket of her trousers and pulled out a switchblade. She flipped it open in one fluid motion and paused to watch it glisten in the flickering fluorescent beams of light coming from the cheap bulb hanging from the ceiling.

"And by "an awful mess", Dennis, I mean _an awful mess._" Jane smirked, nearly bearing her teeth as she let out a small laugh. She reached out to Dennis, the blade guiding her hand through the small space between them, and he flinched.

"No, no…I…" Dennis blinked, the sweat from his furrowed brow cascading down his worn skin to his set fire to his eyes. His old bones couldn't fight and his tired mouth couldn't properly argue, so he began kissing ass. "It would be an honor to have you gentlemen take these here cars. No charge at all, not even a penny. I don't need no money anyway…speaking of money, you boys sure got some finely tailored suits. You must be loaded to be wearin' that kind of high-class fabric there. The ladies must love ya' too…"

Frankie's face broke out into a smile as he tried to suppress the laughter bubbling up from deep within his gut. He turned to look at Jane, who was in a similar state. They had seen a lot of people beg for their lives in a lot of different ways over the years, but they had never come across someone who was so scared that they started spewing out compliments.

"Well, that's very kind of ya', Dennis. Buttering me up will only get ya' so far, though." Jane closed the switchblade and placed it back in her pocket. She turned on her heel to look around the garage, her gaze settling on a row of wooden support beams. "Tie him up, will ya', Frankie? We've got shit to do."

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><p>Two, brand-spanking new Fords headed into Chardon, the classic, subtle roar of the V8 engines catching the attention of a few citizens who were out and about, going through the motions of their normal, boring lives. There was something about Ohio that always had Jane biting back a yawn. Trying to describe it to someone who had never been was like trying to read a Hemingway novel from cover to cover without passing out at least a million times. O-<em>freaking<em>-hio just wasn't worth Jane's time; well, except for O-_freaking_-hio's money, that was definitely worth her time.

"Ya' want to explain to me again why ya' won't let me drive?" Frankie was sitting in the passenger's seat, sitting as still as a statue. He was either just as bored with Ohio as Jane was, or he was thinking just a little too hard.

"I'm not lettin' you drive because the last time I did ya' nearly flipped the fuckin' thing." Jane tightened her grip on the steering wheel and let a heavy breath out through her clenched teeth. She could have sworn he had asked her that question five minutes ago, and again five minutes before that, and then possibly even five minutes before _that._

"I was just getting' used to it!"

"It was like you'd never driven a fucking car before, Frankie!"

Jane ignored Frankie's incoherent mumbling and focused on the road. Besides the game of twenty questions she had been playing with her younger sibling since they left Swine Creek, she felt good. They had stopped off at a safe house just outside of Chardon to get all of the details ironed out and to grab a quick bite to eat, among other things. There were numerous safe houses spread throughout each state they had ventured to. Whether they staked claims on those houses by use of choking out a bit of fear from their residents or through friends was hard to keep track of. They had all concluded, minus Crowe and his ever depleting intelligence, that this bank would be different. The vault would take the bank teller at least a full extra minute to get open, and when you're in the business of robbing banks, a minute was a hell of a wait.

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><p><em>"He gonna be done soon? It's startin' to sound like a fuckin' whore house in here!" Korsak huffed and puffed and nearly blew the whole damn house down. He probably would have too, if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied with an outstanding amount of food that the lady of the house was kind enough to supply them with.<em>

_"Yeah, yeah, don't blow your wig, old man." Frankie stopped sifting through the papers strewn about the table to look up at Korsak. "Just give 'em a minute."_

_A heavy thud echoed throughout the small kitchen, followed by a rather loud and earsplitting moan. Frankie, Korsak and Crowe all turned their heads to look at the door at the far end of the kitchen that had begun to rattle in its frame. While Korsak went back to stuffing his face and Crowe went back to doing whatever the hell it was that Crowe had been doing, Frankie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Jane and Frankie had never and would never talk about anything even closely related to sex, mainly because the fact that his sister now had a married woman pinned up against a door was just too fucked up to talk about out loud. He turned back to the papers in front of him and tried to drown out the sounds of wood scraping against wood and body pounding against body._

_"Does he always do this?" Crowe looked to Korsak for an answer._

_"Ya' couldn't keep Casanova in there away from the ladies even if ya' tried." Korsak began laughing, nearly choking in the process. He pounded on his chest with one of his old, beat up hands to try and fight off the coughing fit he knew was coming._

_"Alright, alright, let's cut the fuckin' chit chat and get back to business." Frankie interrupted, completely obliterating any chance Korsak had to continue speaking. "Let me go over what Jay has written here with ya' one more time." He paused to hold up a couple pieces of paper. "We don't need you two twits gumming up the works on us when we're so close to gettin' back home."_

_Just as Frankie was about to go back over the complications that came with the new vault Chardon had recently installed in their main bank, the door on the far side of the kitchen opened up. Jane walked out, looking as clean and put together as ever, with a short, disheveled blond woman at her side. Korsak looked up and began running his mouth again, bits and pieces of food clinging to his small beard._

_"Ha! Looks like she didn't even touch ya', kid! What'd ya' have to slip her a Mickey to get her in there?" Korsak was his own favorite comedian so he began laughing again, much to Frankie's disdain. Crowe caught on to the joke a little late in the game but started laughing along nonetheless._

_"Go get yourself cleaned up, huh?" Jane looked down at the small woman next to her, her voice a raspy whisper in comparison to the rowdy cadence that had just picked up at her expense."Us boys gotta talk business for a bit."_

_The small, disheveled woman scampered off to another part of the small house and Jane watched her closely as she went. Get fucked but don't touch; it was a game Jane had played with this woman, as well as various others, numerous times before. It was a way to keep up the act and a way to justify the giant, always looming lie she had stitched to her heels years ago. It had always been that way, but lately the thick line she had drawn between fantasy and reality had faded and the two sides started to blur. Jay Rizzoli had always fucked women for the hell of it, he had the confidence and the swagger, he didn't have a past he was running from, but Jane Rizzoli had recently started fucking women for the comfort and safety of it all. She never let herself think about it long enough to dissect it, and if she were to be honest with herself, she didn't know if she ever really wanted to figure out what it all really meant. So she put it out of her mind while she walked over to where her makeshift crew was sitting, with a little extra bounce in her step and sat down to focus on work._

_"Ya' wanna keep laughin' at me, or do ya' wanna get this figured out so we don't end up back in the hoosegow?" Jane stared at Korsak long enough to shut him up._

_"It ain't like we wouldn't just break out like all the other fuckin' times, kid." Korsak leaned back in his chair, the old wood moaning against the extra weight._

_"Seeing as you ain't the one who always thinks up the elaborate plans to break us out, I don't think you've got much room to talk." Frankie finally spoke up from across the table and tossed the small pile of papers in his hand over to Jane. "You explain it, I'm done tryin' with these two."_

_"Long story short, some fuckin' mayor thought it'd be a grand idea to up the ante security wise to try and keep folks like us from stealing money from the good people of Chardon. Extra dual combination locks means that we've gotta keep the pigs at bay for a little bit longer than usual." Jane didn't even bother looking down at the papers that Frankie had handed over. She'd already been over the information she wrote down at least a dozen times. "The PD is all the way on the other side of the city, so that ought to buy us some time before we find ourselves on the bad end of a full-out, old-fashioned shootout."_

_"Who's on watch?" Korsak had a sinking feeling that it was going to be him yet again, but he asked anyway._

_"You are. Frankie and Crowe are inside with me. I don't need your drunken ass fucking anything up, so you're stayin' outside." Jane reached over to Korsak's not-so-secret pocket where he kept his flask and pulled it out, tossing it onto the table. "Ya' ain't drinking before this one either, old man. I don't want you yellin' out that there are forty pigs when there are really only twenty."_

_"Twenty pigs, forty pigs, it's all the same, kid." Korsak rolled his eyes and then did his best impression of Billy the Kid, shooting a few invisible bullets in Frankie's direction. "Just throw some slop their way and they're happy as fuckin' clams!"_

_"Yeah, and I'm going to make sure that you're the slop if you fuck this up for us. One more go and then we're back home for awhile, so hold off on the hooch until we're out of Chardon, will ya'?" Jane leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, clearly unimpressed with the egocentric comedian that was sitting next to her._

_The sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor in the other room caused Jane to stand rather abruptly. The lady of the house reemerged wearing a clean dress; with her hair no longer mussed and lipstick no longer smeared, she walked over towards the table with purpose. The jig was up, for lack of a better phrase, and Jane knew it. She was a fish out of water in the aftermath of intimacy, so once the ladies were back in a conventional state of mind she ran, fast._

_"We're headin' out, Nellie." Jane picked up her coat that she had placed over the back of one of the old kitchen chairs, before she had been otherwise occupied, and flung it over her shoulder so that it was precariously hanging from her middle finger on her left hand. "Burn them papers there, will ya'?"_

_Korsak and Crowe stood and headed out the doorway from the kitchen out to the little stone driveway that ran alongside the house, thanking Nellie for the hospitality as they went. Frankie waited behind for Jane, mainly just in case Nellie's husband, Henry, decided to barge in through the front door unexpectedly. He went about straightening his coat and hat, along with buttoning the buttons of his vest back up._

_"You fixin' to take me with you this time, Jay?" Nellie stepped closer to Jane and reached out to straighten her vest. As her hands climbed higher and higher up the fabric covering the wayward gangster's chest, Jane's breath hitched. She reached out to wrap her long fingers well enough around both of Nellie's wrists to stop her from discovering skin that felt an awful lot like tightly wound gauze. Get fucked, but don't touch._

_"I can't, doll, you know that. The kind of business we've got ourselves buried in ain't no place for a lady." Jane ducked her head to brush her lips across Nellie's knuckles, trying to cover up the snort of laughter that Frankie hadn't managed to keep in. It seemed to work, since Nellie now had "wed me, bed me, and grow old with me" written all over her face._

_With that, Jane turned on her heel and crossed the kitchen floor with heavy steps. She glared at Frankie before walking out the open door._

_"Ma'am," Frankie tilted his hat towards Nellie, "Thank you." Frankie then turned to follow Jane back to the vehicles, closing the door on his way out._

_Once everyone was settled back in the respective means of transportation, Jane turned to Frankie and whacked him on the shoulder._

_"Ow! Do ya' wanna maybe not?" Frankie rubbed his shoulder, earning an eye roll from Jane. "I'm sorry. It was funny."_

_"Yeah, real fuckin' hilarious." Jane couldn't help but grin as she started the car. She started to head back down the small driveway, but slowed momentarily upon seeing a dull yellow Plymouth park at the front of the house._

_"Henry." Jane laughed and pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor, taking off like a shot down the dry dirt road. The roar of the engine dulled the predatory rage that was bubbling up from her gut but it wasn't completely satisfying, so she flung her arm out the window and sent a half-hearted wave in Henry's direction._

_"You're a damn home wrecker!" Frankie turned in his seat to look back at the confused look on Nellie's husband's face. He couldn't help but laugh._

_"He ain't ever gonna know!"_

* * *

><p>"That it?" Frankie pointed to a rather large building down at the end of the block. It was an off-white aesthetic disaster. Stone pillars stood tall in front of its clean outer walls, holding up the lip of the roof as it hung out over the sidewalk.<p>

"Well, if they were goin' for that gaudy Roman look, they fuckin' got it." Jane pulled up next to the curb and looked into the rear view mirror to make sure Korsak hadn't gotten himself lost. He was there alright, pulling up onto the sidewalk in all his drunken glory, nearly taking out a man who was minding his own business with his nose buried in a newspaper.

"Really?" Jane turned in her seat to look out the back window just in time to see Korsak backing off the sidewalk, parking cockeyed nearly halfway in the middle of the damn street.

"Well, we're off to a good start." Frankie turned to look at Jane, who stared back at him for a few seconds with an exasperated look on her face. "What? I'm not the one who nearly imploded at the idea of Crowe drivin'."

"That kid doesn't know shit from Shinola! We'd be waitin' here in Chardon, while he's drivin' off in fuckin' Utah somewhere rubbin' one out. At least I know Korsak'll keep up and fuckin' get to where we need to go, even if he's swervin' all over the damn place." Jane shut off the car, but left the keys in the ignition.

**Bank Heist Rule #1: Always leave the keys in the ignition. The last thing an already agitated gangster wants to do is try to remember which pocket the damn keys are in when they've got pigs in uniforms throwing lead their way.**

Once they were all standing on the sidewalk, the skies opened up with the sole purpose of making a downright mess of everything. To be fair, the storm had been brewing in God's gut for nearly the entire morning so to assume that the Big Man would cut them some slack was pushing it just a bit. It's not like they really needed any though; when you've got a semi-automatic Chicago Typewriter in your hands you cut your own slack, God and his rain be damned.

So there they were, standing on the sidewalk outside of a little bank in Ohio, all sewn together with the finest purloined thread into the perfect picture of an all-American catastrophe. The fact that they were all damned to walk down this path before each of them turned _9, 7, 12, 14_ years of age, due to various traumatic events that tore their childhoods right out from under them, didn't matter in the slightest. At least, not now, not when they were only a few steps away from feeling like kings, not when they were a few steps away from feeling like the cat's _fucking_meow, now when they were a few steps away from feeling in control of damn near everything for once in their lives. For the next two minutes it was all aces.

Four men, give or take, dressed to kill in all black; nothing out of the ordinary about that, right?

Jane turned to look at her brother, a cigarette that had been put out by the unrelenting rain nearly the second she lit it still clinging to her lips, and smirked. Frankie gave a quick nod and looked to Korsak, who had situated himself next to one of the giant stone pillars. Jane and Frankie both turned to the two front doors (the gateway to Heaven for the time being), each of them kicking one open in a synchronized motion that had been perfected over the years. The cheap, faux gold doors rattled in their frames as they stepped through, Crowe following closely behind.

It was silent chaos, the bank's loyal patrons turning towards the noise that had disrupted their quiet afternoon of making withdrawals and deposits. Well, it was silent until Jane and Frankie both pulled their gats from the inside of their coats and raised them to the ceiling, setting off a few warning shots to leave no room for interpretation. Yes, we're the Rizzoli Brothers, and yes, you're completely fucked.

"Listen up!" Jane's voice bounced off the high ceiling and shot straight into the ears of her fear-stricken audience. She jogged over to the main counter, located in the center of the facility, and climbed on top of it. It was show time. "We're the Rizzoli Brothers and we're here to make a withdrawal!"

Time slowed for the briefest of moments, and Jane set off a few more shots towards the ceiling. _The Rizzoli Brothers, Frankie, Tommy, Ma, Charlie…Charlie._

* * *

><p><em>"Put your hands up! It's the Rizzoli Brothers!" A small girl, no older than the age of nine, stood in the middle of a dirty old backyard with a makeshift gun (that looked strikingly similar to a dry piece of bark) pointed at a young boy with sandy blond hair.<em>

_"Yeah, listen to Janie! Put your hands up, Tommy!" Another young boy, no older than the age of seven, stood next to the young Jane with his own menacing piece of bark clasped tightly between his hands._

_"No, Fwankie! I'm a policeman, and the PO-lice don't listen to stinky, old bad guys!" Tommy swung his little arms around, trying his best to get his point across. He stood his ground, ever the little hero, even at the age of five._

_"You know what Charlie says we do to the police, Tommy!" Frankie took a step forward in an attempt to intimidate the little hero, but no dice, Tommy dug his little toes even further into the dirt and stared back at his two older siblings._

_"Yeah, Tommy, you know what Charlie says! We gut the pigs!" Jane rushed at Tommy, but was stopped before she could tackle him by the backdoor to the tiny house flying open. A booming voice cut through the air, causing all three little Rizzolis to looks at each other._

_"What the fuck are ya' doin'? Get the fuck back inside, ya' little rats!"_

_Game over, for damn near good._

* * *

><p>Time sped back up, double time. Jane's palms began to sweat and everything blurred. It was time to move, fast. She hopped off the main counter, landing with a heavy thud, and walked over to the nearest poindexter in a cheap suit.<p>

"Clarence, huh?" Jane looked at the white name tag pinned to the man's suit jacket. His shoes looked like they hadn't seen polish in ages, and he was nearly shaking out of them. "I think you're gonna have to help me. Ya' see, Clarence, I ain't been through this whole bank business in, oh…about twenty-four hours. I think I need a refresher course." With that, Jane grabbed him by the collar and pressed her gun harshly into his side, pushing him towards the safe at the back of the large room, tucked behind a rather meaningless wall.

"I wanna see hands in the air! You so much as move 'em an inch and we're gonna have a problem!" Frankie walked over to the main counter, where Jane had just been, and hopped on up for a bird's eye view.

**Bank Heist Rule #2: It's your game, so play it strong.**

Jane had pushed Clarence all the way to the back of the building. The wall between the main room and the vault provided decent enough cover. It blocked Clarence off from the rest of the 'hostages' so that he could focus on twisting and turning dials and it gave Jane the opportunity to provide him with as much calm energy that could be pushed out into the atmosphere during a situation like this.

"What are ya' shakin' for, Clarence? I ain't here for you; I'm here for the money." Jane gave Clarence a hearty clap on the back, her gun still pressed to his side. "Ya' might wanna hurry up though, I ain't got all day."

Crowe was out of his element. Jane and Frankie moved through this whole bank robbing business like water through a colander, and Crowe was quickly realizing that he was the wet noodle that was left over after the water went down the drain. _Move an inch and we have a problem. You've got this, Darren, don't fuck it up._

Just as Crowe's personal motivational speech was over, a small boy with a small wooden fire truck clutched tightly between his little balled fists ran out from behind one of the many desks scattered about the room. He was crying, yelling, and screaming bloody murder, searching for his mother who he'd been separated from. Banks were boring, there were too many numbers and decimals and annoying clicks coming from the old typewriters on the desks and all he wanted to do was play with his fire truck on the cool marble floor. One good push and that little toy would go clear across the entire room. He wasn't concerned with how awesome the floor was now though. He just wanted his mother to save him from the big, scary guys with guns.

"Mama! Ma-...Mama!" He was choking out his S.O.S. through his tears, weaving through the desks in search of comfort and safety.

A small woman in a yellow dress stood at the back of the room and rushed towards the little boy as fast as her high heels would carry her. Crowe raised his gun and aimed at Mama Bear. _You so much as move an inch…problem._

A shot rang out, the sound reverberating off the walls, creating the soundtrack to a damn nightmare. The small woman fell just a few feet from her son, blood pooling around her the second she hit the ground.

Crowe took the shot. _He took the fucking shot._

**Bank Heist Rule #3: Only shoot a man if he's asking for it. Never shoot a woman or child _even if they are_ asking for it.**

Frankie turned on his heel, nearly slipping on the papers that were strewn about the counter, just in time to see Crowe fire his weapon. His eyes went wide and he stuttered for a few seconds, trying to think of something to say. The room exploded with gasps and screams. Frankie wanted to charge across the room and tear Crowe's head from his shoulders, but he had to man his post. He had to make sure that Jane was okay, so he raised his gun up to the ceiling again and shot. He wasted an entire clip on the damn ceiling, and as bits of sheetrock fell around him like the snow back home in Boston, he looked around at all the wide eyes and horrified faces staring back at him.

"Quiet!" Frankie yelled at the top of his lungs, gaining control of the room back.

"Yeah! What'd we say? Anyone moves an inch and we'll have a big damn problem!" Crowe raised his gun, pointing at various people.

"You shut your fuckin' mouth!" Frankie pulled a new clip from his pocket and reloaded his weapon, pointing it at Crowe. "You make one more fuckin' move and I swear to God…"

Frankie paused mid-sentence. The sound of muffled gunfire built up like the anger of a caged animal just beyond the two front doors. Korsak could be heard yelling some rather obscene things at what Frankie could only assume were the cops from outside. It was easy to ignore, until stray bullets shattered the glass of the front doors and let in all the loud chaos.

"Jay!"

Jane's head shot up at the sound of Frankie's panicked voice. _What the hell? _She glared at Clarence, willing him to pick up the pace.

_Click. Click. Click._

"Good man." Jane grinned as the vault popped open. Clarence pulled at the heavy door, his weak muscles struggling against the weight. Once the door was open enough to get in, Jane unhinged the barred door behind it and pulled Clarence inside.

"Jay! We gotta go…now!" Frankie's nerves were fraying and his voice cracked. He looked over to the little boy who was sitting by his mother, blood soaking through his little overalls. Frankie was trying to keep the contents of his stomach from making an unwanted appearance. It wasn't the blood that got to him, Lord knows he had seen plenty of that in his day; it was the look on that little kid's face that had him shaking. That kid wouldn't ever be the same. He wouldn't be a doctor or a lawyer. He'd just grow up to be a guy who was introduced death just a little too soon. _Just like me. Welcome to the club, kid. _

Frankie could feel the panic filling the room. Hearts were beating entirely too fast. One more fuck up and it would be all over.

Just as Frankie opened his mouth to call out for Jane again, she came rushing out of the vault, pushing Clarence along. He was holding four full bags of cash in his visibly shaking hands. Leave it to Jay _motherfucking _Rizzoli to be the one to keep it all together and get the job done.

"Let's go, boys! I've got suits to buy and whiskey to drink!" Jane was laughing, just a few breaths short of full-out joyous hollering. Well, she was until she slipped in _something_ and if it wasn't for the tight grip that she had on the back of Clarence's suit jacket she would have ended up on the ground. _What the fuck?_ She looked down and time slowed yet again. She saw a young boy clinging to a woman who was lying on the ground in a puddle of what seemed to be her own blood. _Charlie. Charlie. Charlie. _Any reminder of that name was her only downfall. She was suddenly all too aware of the switchblade she always kept in her left side trouser pocket. It felt like it was burning straight through the expensive fabric to brand the skin on her thigh. Her palms burned and she almost lost the hold she had on Clarence. She looked to Frankie for answers, or maybe it was just to get herself back on stable mental ground, to bring enough clarity to help her finish the job, but he just hopped off the main counter and headed for the door.

Jane started for the door, but her pace was faltering. The blood she and Clarence had stepped in was leaving behind God-awful wet, crimson shoeprints. They were like uncoordinated kids trying out ice-skating or rollerblading for the first time, slip-sliding all the way to the front doors on uneasy legs, finally gaining some traction on the shattered bits of glass they were now standing on.

"Looks like I'm gonna need ya' for just one more thing, Clarence." Jane pushed Clarence through the doors, using his body sort of like a battering ram. She had been gentle about it, but he still found himself with a face full of door nonetheless.

It was still raining, because really, why would Ohio show them any sort of hospitality? Jane could barely see five feet in front of her, but she could hear Korsak and Frankie shouting to her left and someone yelling "cease fire!" to her right. She pushed Clarence towards her brother's voice, finding him and Korsak held up behind one of the stone pillars that was nearly in ruin, gunfire had sheared off a good portion of rock and sand.

"Where's Crowe at, kid?" Korsak looked at Jane, attempting to shout over the thunder that was obnoxiously roaring in the dark sky just above them. Storms could be very rude sometimes.

"What?" Jane was yelling back to Korsak right in Clarence's ear. If being forced to help gangsters rob the bank he had been working at for nearly twenty years wasn't enough, he now had the luxury of being deaf in one ear.

Korsak waved her off, his question being answered as the front doors flew open. Crowe stepped out, gun raised, with an elderly man pressed against his torso for protection. Jane turned and nodded at Frankie, who took a few steps forward to hide behind Clarence. The two siblings began walking towards their vehicle, hidden well enough behind their human body shield to keep the cops from firing their weapons. Korsak and Crowe quickly followed in much the same manner.

They hadn't lost their control completely, at least not yet.

* * *

><p>A word to the wise: speeding down wet roads in a fast car while precariously balancing atop the skirt of the wet vehicle with a hostage who's holding at least seventy-thousand dollars in his clumsy hands, all while shooting at the herd of police vehicles that were on your ass, <em>is hard<em>. Who would have thought?

They were still in Chardon, turning down a new street at every available moment. Just watching would have made you sick. It was all the mechanics of a roller coaster, minus the fun and relative bout of safety the pull-down bar provided. Something to hold onto, other than the roof of the car, would have been pretty damn nice right about now.

Frankie was at the wheel while Jane and Clarence were clinging to the outside of the vehicle, being pelted by the harsh rain. Slowing the pigs down was proving to be a very difficult task. Jane wasn't expecting them to put up much of a chase, but they were shooting for the Police Force of the Month with this one. They had been separated from Korsak and Crowe a few turns back, which was a pity since Jane could have used the extra firepower. She had been firing round after round attempting to blowout at least one tire, but no dice.

"Frankie, slow down a bit, will ya'?" Jane leaned down enough to peer in through the open passenger side window.

"What? Why?" Frankie kept his eyes on the road. He was concentrating on not losing control of the car. Seeing a turn up ahead, he took it, hard.

"Jesus!" Jane clung to the car door even tighter. She wasn't going out like this. Dying by slipping off a car just wasn't cool enough. "Just slow it down! I gotta drop something off."

Frankie understood almost immediately. The confused look that he had been sporting vanished and was replaced by a grade-A Rizzoli smirk.

**Bank Heist Rule #4: Be innovative; it could save your life. Well, what's left of it.**

Jane began grabbing the bags that Clarence was still somehow managing to hold onto, tossing all four through the passenger side window. She then leaned down and gingerly placed her gat on the passenger seat.

"Well, Clarence, ya' had quite an exciting day, didn't ya'?" Jane stood up as straight as she could while turning to look at the man beside her. Clarence just stared back, not exactly too keen to where this was headed.

Frankie began to slow the car down, the gaggle of policemen behind them getting closer and closer with each passing second. Jane clung to the car with her right arm, and raised her left to give Clarence a friendly clap on the back. Once her hand met with his back she grabbed a fistful of the back of his suit jacket and pulled. Clarence was caught off guard and began falling towards the pavement before he knew what was happening. Jane knew that road rash wasn't exactly the most attractive and awesome feeling thing in the world, so she kept a hold on the flailing man for as long as she could, trying to make his fall as painless as possible.

So there Clarence was, rolling down the middle of South Street. The sound of breaks squealing broke through the somewhat muffled voice of the pouring rain. Jane watched as every single police car came to a grinding halt, just missing Clarence by mere feet. _Good man._Jane climbed though the passenger window.

Once Frankie made sure that his sister was safely situated in her seat, he sped back up. They kept driving and driving and driving, not slowing down in the slightest. No one was following them now, but they had to keep going. They always had to keep going.

Frankie turned again, heading towards the edge of the city. He saw an old dirt road that headed up a bit of an incline, banking on being able to find somewhere to recuperate he began to the turn the wheel. All of a sudden, their twin vehicle came flying out of side road like a bat out of hell and flew up the dirt road, causing Frankie to slam on the brakes.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Korsak!" Frankie glared at the vehicle as it sped up the dirt road. He let out a breath and began to follow.

There was a strong, odd tension between Jane and Frankie, threatening to suck all the oxygen out of the small cabin and suffocate them both.

"Please tell me it wasn't you, Frankie." Jane didn't move; she just kept staring out the window, bracing herself for something.

"Christ, Janie. Ya' really think that low of me? I'd never even _think _of doin' something like that to a lady and you should fuckin' know that." Frankie let out a heavy breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "It was Crowe."

Jane nodded but said nothing. They sat in relative silence; the only sound was coming from the car bouncing along on the uneven road. Frankie knew that Jane holding back from speaking was never a good thing. It always meant that she was weighing her options, picking her own brain for the best course of action. It meant that she didn't trust him enough with whatever the hell it was that she was thinking about to say it out loud, or she was trying to protect him by taking the emotional brunt of a dark and violent decision.

Korsak was leading the way and had somehow managed, through his buzzed haze, to find an old rundown barn to hideout at. It was at the top of a large hill, and it seemed like it was the only thing around for miles. There was a pile of rubble about twenty yards away from it that seemed like it was once a small farmhouse. They pulled up the muddy driveway and parked just outside of the barn.

"Leave the keys in the ignition, Frankie." Jane threw the door open and stepped out. She pulled her long coat off after retrieving the revolver from one of the inside pockets and tossed it down onto her seat. She reached around herself and slid the gun through the back of her belt. "We ain't stayin' long."

Jane slammed the door closed and walked with purpose to the large doors of the barn. She grabbed the latch and lifted it. The large hinges were rusted, but after rattling the old wood for a few seconds it open with a shrill squeal. Jane stepped inside, instantly drowning in the smell of old manure and gasoline. It was dark, but the small amount of dull light that the open door had let in shone on a gas lantern at the far end of the barn. Jane walked over to inspect it. It had a mantle in it, so she searched her pockets for a lighter, coming up empty.

Frankie walked in, his face scrunching up into an expression of pure disgust at the smell. Jane looked over to him and despite the anger and sorrow waging a war inside of her, she laughed.

"What are ya' doin' just standin' there, Little Rizzoli?" Korsak walked up next to Frankie and stopped once the smell invaded his nostrils. He could nearly taste it on his tongue. "Oh, c'mon, that ain't nothin'." He paused and laughed. "Well, I guess it ain't nothin' to me. Jeez, you two had it easy growin' up in Boston."

"Yeah, real easy." Jane's voice was hollow. She knew Korsak was just trying to start up a conversation, but she just wasn't having it right now. "Frankie, you got a light?"

Frankie searched through his pockets, hoping that it wouldn't take him a whole freaking decade to find his lighter this time. He chose the right pocket though and tossed the lighter to Jane, who caught it despite her lack of visibility at the back of the barn.

"Hey, you two smell gas? Ya' wanna go figure out where it's comin' from? We might be able to use it." Jane lit the lantern, the soft glow instantly illuminating the large space.

"Yeah, sure." Frankie didn't bother to ask why; instead he began walking around the large expanse of space in search of the source. Korsak shrugged and went along after him to help. He figured that the more people they had looking for it, the sooner they could all just relax.

Jane was standing with her back to the door, waiting. Just as she was about to turn, a figure appeared in the doorway, casting a shadow across the floor. Jane's body stiffened and she put the lantern down at her feet.

"Hey, Jay! Look what we found!" Frankie sounded proud of his discovery, always looking to please his big sister. He and Korsak reemerged from the darker side of the barn; each of them were carrying one old metal jug filled the brim with gasoline. Jane turned on her heel and peered at Crowe in the doorway before turning to her brother.

"Good find, little brother." Jane took a few steps forward towards Frankie and Korsak.

In a rapid burst of movement, Jane turned to Crowe and pulled the revolver out from the back of her pants. The room was lit up with gunfire as she pulled the trigger without thinking twice. Frankie and Korsak jumped, almost dropping the jugs they were holding. She was aiming for Crowe's kneecaps, but only managed to hit him in the shin and thigh in the low light of the room. It didn't matter much now though, since he was screaming out expletives, crumpling and falling to the ground fast.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?" Jane walked over to the man lying on the ground before Frankie had a chance to stop her. Crowe was trying to pull himself out the door, a small trail of blood behind him, but it was a fruitless attempt. Jane had caught up to him without even thinking about breaking a sweat and reached down to grab to fistfuls of his shirt. She dragged him to the center of the barn, close to the lantern so that she could see his face without any struggle.

"What are you doing?" Crowe was shaking, whether it was from what had just taken place or what was about to take place Jane couldn't decide. "I...I didn't do anything!"

"Like hell ya' didn't! Ya' shot and killed an innocent woman, ya' stupid fuck!" Jane raised her leg and forced her heel down onto the bullet wound on Crowe's thigh, causing him to cry out.

"Frankie said…Frankie said that if anyone moved an inch that we'd have a problem!" Crowe was struggling to get his words out, the pain he was feeling was too intense to really even think straight. "I d- I didn't know I wa-wasn't supposed to shoot just because it was a damn w-woman that was movin'!"

Jane was enraged; she was one more stupid excuse away from seeing red. She leaned down and grabbed at his shirt, shaking him. The revolver in her left hand was pressed tightly against Crowe's chest, the barrel digging into the soft flesh of his neck.

"A real man doesn't need to be told that!" Jane went to stand up, but stopped short to strike Crowe across the face with the butt of the revolver. She wanted to hit him again, she wanted to mutilate him, but she refrained. She stood and walked back over to Frankie and Korsak, who stood shell-shocked, trying to put together what had just happened. Frankie understood why, but Korsak was taken completely off guard, his mind floating in the grey area of mass confusion.

"Go start the cars, will ya'? We're goin' home." Jane looked from Frankie to Korsak, who just nodded and set the jugs of gasoline down at their feet before exiting the barn. Jane turned to look back at Crowe before picking up both of the jugs and walking back over to him.

Jane set one of the containers down and raised the other up in her arms to douse the man below her, but stopped short upon noticing a raised rectangular spot near one of Crowe's trouser pockets. She set the container she was holding down next to its counterpart and reached for Crowe's pocket, pulling out a crisp stack of one-hundred dollar bills. He tried to voice his protest, but it came out as a string of pathetic mewls for sympathy.

"Whose share is this from?" Jane couldn't help but laugh. She stuffed the bills into her pocket. "Listen, you rat, you're going to die right now because ya' shot a lady, but even if ya' didn't…I would've killed ya' later for stealin' from me."

Crowe began yelling anything that came to mind, anything that could sway the famous Jay Rizzoli to spare him, but Jane began dousing him and every bit of dirt and dry hay that surrounded him in gasoline despite his efforts. Forgiveness just wasn't that easy.

Once both jugs were empty, Jane walked over to the lantern she had set down at the far end of the barn. She picked it up and headed for the door.

"Enjoy the show, huh? Pleasure workin' with ya'." With that, Jane threw the lantern in Crowe's direction. The second the glass surrounding the flame shattered it was all over. Flames engulfed the floor and the pathetic excuse of a man lying there, setting to work to melt the flesh right off his bones. Jane walked out into the rain and tipped her hat, mainly to shield her eyes from the bright flames, and grasped the large door with both hands; with her scarred palms pressed tightly against the old wood she pushed it closed, dulling the screaming.

Frankie walked up to Jane and grabbed her by the arm. He didn't say anything, but a silent understanding passed between them. Korsak was sitting in his car, the bright headlights shining brightly on the two Rizzoli Brothers like they were standing on a stage. Scene over, cut the music, take a bow.

"Let's go home, Janie." Frankie pulled his sister towards their car, trying his best to be the stronger of the two for once.

**Bank Heist Rule #5: You're going to burn for it one way or another. It isn't a rule, it's a fact.**


	3. Nash

**Chapter Three: Nash  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>Once I lived the life of a millionaire<br>__Spending all my money, I didn't care  
><em>_I carried my friends out for a good time,  
><em>_Buying bootleg liquor, champagne, and wine  
><em>

* * *

><p>The repugnant, repetitive <em>tip-tap-tap-tap-cling <em>sound of multiple out of time typewriters wrestled with vigor to regain dominance over the new-found hustle and bustle of the Boston Police Department. The highly caffeinated detectives were making a downright show of cleaning up their act, pinning photos from week-old cases up on various different corkboards and setting to work on straightening out case files. Hefty clouds of smoke were billowing through the air from every which way from the cigarettes and cigars held tightly between each set of lips in the room. It was a giant, visible mass of unadulterated stress and anxiety.

To make matters worse, their reason for scrambling had just entered the building; one of the nation's finest, supposedly hailing from New York City. His heavy, yet controlled and rhythmic footsteps echoed through the stairwell, the subtle sound hanging the turbulent detectives out to dangle just above the big drop into a metaphorical pool of complete and utter failure. The chaos stilled, frozen in a giant block of silent panic.

"Don't tell me you pansies are scared now." A strong, yet overly confident voice broke through the silence. Lieutenant Sean Cavanaugh had an invidious knack for returning a somewhat decent amount of normalcy to the BPD with his short temper whenever things got a little too far out of control. He stood at the far end of the room, watching his best detectives run around like a bunch of beheaded chickens in a haste to get to each of their respective desks. His graying hair made him stick out like a sore thumb against the cherry stained oak paneling on the wall behind him.

Any chance that Cavanaugh had to yip and holler about how his finest detectives were making a mockery of the system was snuffed out the second the heavy door leading to the stairwell flew open. A man in a gray three-piece suit stepped into the hallway, whistling some peppy, upbeat tune while swinging the briefcase he had clutched tightly in his right hand back and forth through the thick and stuffy air. The creases in the fedora that sat atop his head were crisp and clean and his shoes were shined so damn much that they caught the light whenever he took a step. If it was a different time and a different place, some would say that that man looked like Jesus himself, business casual though, of course.

His hat cast enough of a shadow to hide his eyes in the dimly lit hallway, but that did little to water down the intimidation and determination seemingly reeking from his figure. He had a unique swagger; maybe it was just how he walked, but the slight limp in his gait said otherwise. There was a small clip in his rhythm whenever he threw out his left leg to take a healthy helping of a step forward, causing the heel of the shoe on his left foot to scrape against the hardwood floor.

"Who shot the Big Apple's prized pony?" A brave soul with a boisterous voice thought it was the perfect time to throw out a comment to try and belittle the man limping his way towards the room of detectives. There was always a wiseass. It wouldn't really be the _Boston_ Police Department if there wasn't.

The man stopped whistling and the briefcase he had previously been swinging about rather merrily paused at his side. His lips curled up into a familiar smirk; it was eerily familiar, really. The man made a beeline for Cavanaugh, not even sparing a moment of his time to glance around at the detectives who were gaping at him.

"Special Agent Thomas Nash…and you are Lieutenant Cavanaugh, I presume." There was a certain undeniable elegance and intelligence flowing from every word he spoke. He was different from all of those ratty, two-bit detectives that surrounded him in that his eyes showed nothing but a friendly disposition and a drive to bring petty criminals to justice. All that haunts us has a very not-so-subtle way of scaring us into becoming better than whatever the hell it was that broke us in the first place. So, in the bright lights of the bullpen of the BPD, smack-dab in the middle of Boston, Nash extended his left hand towards the gray-haired man for a professional, well-natured shake. Cavanaugh paused upon noticing that smirk again, but he brushed it off like it was nothing but dust on the seat of his trousers and raised his arm to grasp the hand that was left empty in mid-air for a moment of quiet, confused contemplation.

All the while the Rizzoli Brothers smirked at them from the corkboard hanging on the wall behind the old dog of a Lieutenant, laughing in the face of authority even in the form of faded mug shots printed on cheap paper.

* * *

><p>Whoever invented mirrors deserved to be shot. They were horrible, horrible reflective slabs of bullshit. Standing in front of one for more than a minute was truly hazardous but there Jane Rizzoli was, standing in the middle of some swanky bathroom in some expensive as all hell hotel in Southie staring at the harsh bruising scattered violently about her chest. The gauze that had been wrapped tightly around her torso for the better part of a week was lying in a homely looking heap in the sink in front of her, its edges frayed and torn. There had to be a better way to do this, but she was done with trying to find that perfect way. No amount of undershirts could cover what she didn't want anyone to see. She had tried time and time again to walk the path of least resistance and bathe in the comfort of having her flesh furnish her bones the way it was supposed to without the prison bars of uncomfortable, not to mention often times painful, dime store bought gauze holding her back. Her breasts were too obvious without it though and they would never fit in with her charade. So the best she could do was attempt to mold that vexatious flesh back into the cavern of her chest and bite back a pained groan whenever she turned too fast and the material pulled too tight. So fucking be it, right?<p>

Jane had just finished bathing, her skin still slick with the water she hadn't bothered to dry off. She stood hunched over the sink in nothing but a fresh pair of black trousers, encumbered with the task of scrutinizing every scar that riddled her skin. Each one of those rough, protruding mounds of disgraced flesh told a story and, at the moment, Jane felt as if she were seated in the middle of some God-forsaken cinema watching her own wretched horror film play out on the silver screen.

Before Jane could sink into the filth of her own less than jubilant past a _click_ and a loud _bang_ from the main room caught her attention, just beyond the closed and locked door of the bathroom in which she was located. Her hand immediately shot to her left pocket in search of her switchblade but stopped short upon hearing whoever the hell is was that had just entered the hotel room stumble and fall, bringing a small, stupid decorative chair and a rather clamorous string of expletives down with them. Jane couldn't help but throw her head back and laugh. Frankie was a creature of habit; he had tripped over that small, stupid decorative chair every single time he came barging back into their hotel room.

Jane just shook her head and peered around the bathroom, searching for the undershirt she had discarded before setting to work on washing off the outstanding amount of dirt and grime that her skin had procured during their long trek back home to Boston. She picked it up from where it had been haphazardly hanging on the corner a small shelf that hung next to the tub and put it on, wincing as her skin pulled tight when she raised her arms, stretching the bruises on her chest and causing them to ache with a fire that would put Lucifer to shame.

Jane opened the door and stared down at Frankie, who hadn't bothered to move from where he was sprawled out on the floor with that damn chair lying across the back of his legs. There was a bag in front of him, its contents spewed about in an array of disorganization.

"Ya' know, we get shot at for a livin' and you're gonna get yourself killed by a fuckin' chair." Jane couldn't keep the smile out of her voice. Frankie, God bless him, always reminded her that it wasn't all rotten and decayed when it came to family. Not everyone leaves, because he never did.

"Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up, Janie." Frankie's words were muffled against the small expanse of carpet that was placed in front of the doorway. That chaotic piece of imported wood was breaking his resolve for walking, so he kept his face pressed against the floor in a childish attempt to hide from it.

"Hey, it ain't my fault that you come runnin' in here like we're housin' free fuckin' whores." Jane rolled her eyes and walked over to where Frankie lay void of all desire to move. She knelt down and began putting the items he had supposedly purchased back into the bag he had dropped.

"Bullshit. With your reputation ya' know I wouldn't get my hands on any of 'em." Frankie sat up; his clothes were all bunched up from his fall. He batted Jane's hands away and reached into the bag, pulling out a box and handing it to her. "I stopped by Paulie's and saw that he got a new shipment in…thought ya' might like those."

Exchanging small gifts was an unspoken thing between the two Rizzoli siblings. They were both well off money wise, but from time to time one of them would bring the other something with the sole purpose of trying to cause a smile. It was like they were trying to make up for every birthday they had missed in their youth, when they were too scared and battered to celebrate properly. They didn't really want to celebrate being alive back then; hell, they rarely even wanted to _be_ alive.

Regardless of all the ghosts that haunted every single damn street corner in Boston, they were excited to be home. They couldn't blame the city that they always found their way back to for the horrid events that took place in their childhood. Streets and buildings weren't anything to be afraid of…now people, on the other hand, were creatures to be very fearful of.

Jane flipped open the lid on the box that Frankie had handed to her and smiled, just like he had expected her to. She pulled out a pair of black and white full brogue oxfords and looked to her old, tattered pair of shoes that sat by the foot of one of the twin beds at the other end of the room.

"Ya' can't paint the town if ya' ain't got a decent pair of shoes, now can ya'?" Frankie grinned and then paused, his expression changed to one of realization. He looked like an old woman who had just remembered that she had forgotten to feed her cats. He dug through his pockets in haste, grumbling all the while, and then finally pulled out a few rolls of gauze. "I picked these up for ya' too. Korsak hit the pub as soon as we got back and got a little rowdy with one of the drunkards…old man ended up gettin' clocked right in the jaw…ran him down to the clinic and well, I saw these. I thought they looked just a bit softer than that cheap shit you've been usin'."

Frankie handed over the gauze and stood up quickly in an attempt to get out of being hooked by a mushy bout of thanks from his sister. Jane understood his line of thinking and got back up onto her feet as well, turning on her heel to walk back towards the bathroom. Frankie busied himself with picking up the chair that was out to get him.

"Frankie?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

* * *

><p>"They were in Ohio last week and nearly tore down all of Chardon to get away. They're making a mockery of the system! I want them behind bars for the rest of their miserable fucking lives!" Cavanaugh's voice rose with each syllable that passed over his tongue, causing the detectives who were subtly listening in just beyond the doorway to the Lieutenant's office to cringe. Nash, who was seated in a worn chair in front of Cavanaugh's desk, just listened and waited for his turn to speak.<p>

"With all due respect, sir, you're not the only person who wants them back in the big house. Nearly half of the country does." Nash's voice was calm and fluid. He was collected and professional, the complete opposite of Cavanaugh's anger and annoyance.

"Yeah and the other half of the damn country wants their fucking autograph!" Cavanaugh jumped up from his seat, his face was red and a fine sheen of sweat was accumulating on his brow.

"They robbed five banks in five days, Lieutenant. They're getting confident and they're crazy if they think that they can ride that out forever. They're going to start getting messy." Nash remained seated, unfazed by Cavanaugh's outburst, and crossed his left leg over his right in an attempt to hinder the dull ache that always took precedence when he was in the same position for too long.

"What makes you think that, Sherlock?" Cavanaugh stared over his cluttered desk at the man that sat before him and let out a small laugh that held absolutely no humor. If looks could kill, Nash would be six feet under by now.

"Did you hear about that abandoned barn that _magically _burst into flames while it was raining cats and dogs just outside of Chardon, sir? They found the charred remains of a man inside and I'd bet my life that it was Jay Rizzoli that lit the match." Nash smirked when he saw Cavanaugh's shoulders slump. Whether it was because he knew something that the Lieutenant didn't or if the old man just didn't enjoy being proven wrong, Nash knew he had him right where he wanted him. _Checkmate._

* * *

><p>It was the middle of June, yet the city of Boston still wrapped its citizens in a slight, frigid chill whenever the sun went down and the sky concealed itself within the deepest shade of blue. The stench of sweat from the working-class day lingered in the air, barely surrendering to the fresh ambiance that weaved its way up and down the streets every night.<p>

"Ya' hear the Rizzoli Brothers are back in town?" A young boy, no older than fifteen, was leaning against a clean brick wall outside of a recently installed theater on Hanover Street talking with his friend about the criminal celebrities that he would soon refer to as his idols.

"They still runnin' with that old man? What's his name…Corlick?" The other boy, who looked a few years younger, responded in a somewhat cocky tone, seeming to think that he could do better. He was a regular Billy the fucking Kid.

"Korsak…and ya' know you're all talk. Ya' couldn't even come close to doin' what he done!" The older boy answered with a fury and commitment to protect the reputation of the men that he had only really read about in newspapers.

"The hell I couldn't, and I wouldn't be drunk all the time neither!" The younger boy spat his rebuttal back at his friend. This kid was crazy as hell and full of confidence, even if the Tommy Guns the Rizzoli Brothers toted around were nearly the size of him; he still had a fire to prove himself burning deep in his belly.

"Hey, I ain't drunk _all_ the time, kid!" A man passing the two feuding friends shouted out his plea for alcoholic innocence. He was a larger man and his pace was slow enough that he managed to catch the ass end of their heated discussion. The two figures that were walking in front of him turned their heads to look at one another.

"Ya' got to let _everyone_ know who ya' are, old man?" Frankie turned his head a bit more to look back at Korsak before fixing his gaze back on the long expanse of sidewalk in front of him.

The two young boys stopped talking, their mouths agape in complete shock. They were thrown into a whirlwind by a man who was scraping at the bottom of the barrel for just a bit a proper recognition. If they had known that they would have run into Vince Korsak himself on the one night they decided to hit up Hanover Street for some good, old-fashioned pick pocketing they would have never opened their mouths.

"Where the hell are we goin' anyway, Jay? We've already passed at least three good pubs on this little fuckin' adventure your takin' us on." He was huffing and puffing, struggling to pull air into his lungs, and the bottom of his shoes were scraping against the sidewalk with every step he took. He was just too tired to lift his legs high enough to clear the sidewalk. Korsak was good at complaining about physical activity in any form; almost as good as he was at drinking and holding a gun.

"You're only complainin' 'cause we've passed the designated amount of time ya' reserve for walkin', old man." Jane looked over to Frankie, who was stuck somewhere between rolling his eyes and laughing at their out of shape business partner. "We're goin' to this new jazz club that they've opened up since we've been gone. I don't much feel like drownin' my sorrows in a pint of cheap ale and savin' your ass when you get into it with some poor guy at some seedy fuckin' bar tonight."

"Savin' my ass? I take care of myself pretty good, kid!" Korsak jogged up behind Jane and Frankie, acting like the idea of him being anything less than a gentleman when he was three sheets to the wind was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard in his life.

"Oh yeah, and how would you know?" Jane's voice was flat but the corners of her mouth turned up into a small smile. She reached up to pull the lip of the fedora that sat atop her head down enough to cover her eyes and ran the tips of her fingers across her hairline; there wasn't a single hair out of place. Her smile grew wider once she heard Korsak's huff and Frankie's laugh.

"Yeah, man, you go down like a sack of fuckin' potatoes!" Frankie spun on his heel to face the man behind him, laughter rumbling deep in his gut. He reached out to lightly flick the butterfly stitches spread tightly across Korsak's cheek.

"C'mon, kid!" Korsak's voice was stuck somewhere between a whine and a growl. He batted Frankie's hand away.

Jane turned just in time to see her younger brother stop the backwards hobble he had been struggling through and put his fists up, jumping back and forth, to and fro. The small amount of embarrassment that Korsak had been feeling was instantly wiped out the second Frankie began hopping around him like some amateur boxer.

"Put up your dukes! I've seen ya' hit, I think I can take ya'!" Frankie swung out his arms, giving Korsak a few light and harmless jabs to the gut. "Rizzoli's got 'im back against the ropes," the younger Rizzoli sibling stopped talking long enough to imitate a right uppercut to Korsak's jaw in slow motion, "Oh, and it's all over, folks!"

While Frankie had his arms raised in celebration, facing Jane with a huge dorky smile on his face, Korsak hooked his right arm behind Frankie's neck and pulled him into a headlock.

"Aw man, c'mon! You smell like a fuckin' barn!" Frankie struggled to try and free himself, his hat falling to the sidewalk in the process. Korsak took this as the perfect opportunity to fuck up Frankie's perfectly greased back hair, leaving him look like a loon that had just escaped from a mental ward.

Korsak let Frankie loose and stood back, straightening his tie in mock annoyance. No matter how bad he simply wanted to sever all of the emotional ties he had formed between himself and the two wayward kids standing in front of him, he couldn't. Over the past few years, Korsak had come to think of Jay and Frankie Rizzoli as his family, in a business where family didn't really have much of a place. He had buried too many friends, lovers, and _children_ to get caught back up in the companionship he never really thought he deserved. Korsak had been perfectly content to drink the rest of his life away in isolation, until the Rizzoli Brothers came to him with a proposition. It was a small job that was only meant to last a week at the most, a string of heists in his home state of Wisconsin. Wisconsin eventually rolled into Iowa, Iowa to Illinois, Illinois to Indiana, Indiana to Ohio, and so on and so forth. Eventually drinking alone didn't seem quite as pleasant as drinking with his new friends.

Frankie finally managed to get himself looking somewhat presentable. He shrugged his shoulders and placed his hat back on his head.

"The ladies like that rough n' tough look anyway, don't they, Jay?" Frankie walked back towards Jane and straightened his collar.

"Yeah, yeah, you look beautiful, princess. Now, if you two are done with your little love fest, ya' think we can get goin'?" Jane rolled her eyes but just couldn't manage to keep the grin off of her face.

"Enough with that." Frankie nudged Jane's shoulder and then turned to stare up at the building standing behind them. His eyes opened wider to take in as much of the new scenery as possible."That it?"

Jane nodded her head before turning on her heel to face the enormous, swanky building that towered over them in a somewhat menacing sort of fashion. It looked like the suits and ties of Boston had melted down the entirety of the _Bupaya Pogoda_ to create this obnoxious, gold-leaf finished monstrosity. It looked so out of place compared to the rest of the buildings on the street.

Frankie crossed his arms and let out a low whistle.

"Wow, ya' think we're gonna be able to afford it?" He raised his shoulders slightly and looked over at Jane, his face expressionless.

"What, the building?" Jane glanced over at her brother and smirked, giving him a light shove before climbing the few concrete steps that led to the front doors.

* * *

><p>"You bettin' your life on a hunch doesn't mean shit to me, Nash!" Cavanaugh pointed an accusing, stubby finger at the man sitting in front of him. "As far as we know that poor fuck in that barn had no ties to the Riz-"<p>

The fuming lieutenant was cut off mid sentence by the sound of the clasps on Nash's briefcase being flipped open. A small, black and white picture was tossed through the air, landing on top of the copious amount of files strewn about the desk with a soft scraping sound that agitated Cavanaugh even further. He peered down at the image before him only to see the Rizzoli siblings, Vince Korsak, and a man that he wasn't about to pretend he was familiar with. His hands found the glossy piece of thick paper with ease and raised it closer to his eyes.

"The _poor fuck_ in that barn was a sub-par criminal named Darren Crowe, sir. He started running with the Rizzolis a few weeks back and, in light of recent events, seemed to have worn out his welcome pretty fast." Nash paused to close his briefcase and set it down next to the uncomfortable, wooden chair he had been sitting in for far too long. "Crowe's not-so-grieving widow informed me this afternoon that he was supposed to be rolling back into town this morning. I can only assume that the men we're all really after are roaming these streets as we speak."

"Alright, what do you need?"

"Your most experienced detective on my side, and I can guarantee that the Rizzoli Brothers and anyone connected to their business, even by the thinnest thread, will be back behind bars by this week's end."

* * *

><p>The interior of<em> The Concorde Club<em> was bathed in a soft glow from various lights set in lavish light fixtures hanging from the high ceilings. Puffs of white smoke floated like small clouds above the tables set up to encircle the small expanse of floor reserved for dancing. Or whatever the hell it was that the couple on the dance-floor was doing. A well-groomed man with a longer cut of brown hair, slicked back with a little too much pomade, was swinging the woman in his arms back and forth a little too harshly, stepping on her toes more often than not.

"What a fuckin' goon." Jane tipped her glass of whiskey towards the couple on the dance floor. She was turned around in the stool she was sitting on with her back against the bar, legs slightly spread in a nonchalant fashion. Her coat had been discarded a drink or two ago, leaving her in a black vest with a crisp white button-up underneath, the sleeves rolled mid-way up her forearms.

Frankie turned away from the heated conversation he had been having with Korsak to direct his attention towards his sister's momentary source of entertainment. He couldn't hold back the laugh that forced its way out of his mouth even if he tried. The soft, sensual voice of the woman crooning into the microphone up on the stage didn't warrant the excessive amount of twirling that man was making his date suffer through.

"Well," Frankie sat up straight and made a show of straightening his tie, "Maybe I should go over there and show 'im how a real man dances with a lady like that."

"Mm." Jane paused to swallow a mouthful of copper liquid from the glass in her hand and turned her head enough to get a proper glimpse of Frankie's cocky smile. God, Jane loved her brother but even she could admit that he wouldn't be able to move his feet in any pattern that closely_ resembled_ dancing even if someone held a gun to his head and told him to say his fucking prayers. "Don't ya' think that poor girl's been through enough, little brother?"

"Ah, shut it!" Frankie quickly turned in his seat, purposefully hooking his foot on the opposite side of Jane's ankle to pull her with him. Jane shot up straight in an attempt to regain her balance, nearly spilling what was left of her drink in the process.

Korsak turned just in time to see the always well put together Jay Rizzoli flailing like a little school girl who had just caught her foot while skipping rope. He nearly spat out his drink, _nearly_, and choked out a boisterous laugh that caused the two Rizzoli siblings to turn their heads and look at him.

"I'm thinkin' that maybe little Rizzoli here might be a bit better off on his feet than you are right now, kid!" Korsak fought off his laughter long enough to get through his hazy, drunken observation. Frankie was surprised that Vince had his head on straight enough to even understand what they were talking about, since he had been tossing them back like it was the second coming since they got to the bar.

"Alright, Jay, c'mon, let's see how fuckin' good ya' are on your feet." Frankie turned to face Jane on his bar stool and crossed his arms. "Why don't ya' go give twinkle toes over there a run for his money?"

"Maybe I will." Jane lifted the near-empty glass she had clutched tightly in her hand to her mouth and drank down the rest of its contents while simultaneously spinning herself back around to face the open room. The empty glass hit the bar with a loud _clink _and spun once, twice, on the smooth surface.

Just as Jane stood, feet planted firmly against the dark hardwood floor, a loud voice beaten half to death with a thick Boston accent caught her attention. She tilted her hat down to cast enough of a shadow over her eyes, mainly to cover up the full-on _cringe_ that was quickly settling itself on her features.

"Rizzoli!"


End file.
